


lie to me

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [54]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Episode 1x05: Lancelot, Episode Related, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, authority kink, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9700253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Behind the scenes during 1x05 (Lancelot). Everyone lies to Arthur one way or another.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Er, so. I have no idea where this came from. I was innocently rewatching 1x05 when it occurred to me that Gwen isn’t the only one who seemed smitten with Lance throughout the episode, and then this happened.

 

 

Lancelot’s body does not lie, even when his mouth does. His hands are calloused from fieldwork, the muscles of his back strengthened from hours tilling the land and lifting bales of hay. Arthur is not familiar with peasant farmers in an intimate sense but he has bedded enough noblemen to know the difference; to know the softness of their skin and the way they move, certain that the world will bend for them, with none of the defiant challenge that is Lancelot’s whole being from the soles of his feet to the tilt of his chin.

 

Lancelot is not of noble birth.

 

Even so, for the moment Arthur does not begrudge him the deception. As far as lies go, there are worse secrets being kept in his own household, the kind that would get someone killed if Arthur were ever forced to acknowledge them. Arthur has been scrupulously careful to avoid doing just that, turning his head away at the crucial moment or becoming mysteriously deaf, but he cannot pretend to be oblivious forever. Not when there is so much more that he has yet to understand.

 

His father would call it hero-worship, the impulse that draws him to Lancelot, and to an extent he would be right. The man fights almost as well as Arthur does, good enough to beat him with the element of surprise, and that is no small thing. There is also something like appreciation. Apart from Merlin, there are few men who can keep up with him, and even fewer who would dare to confront a prince. Arthur does not have so many friends that he can afford to pick and choose where they should come from, and if it happens that the best of them hail from the peasant classes, well then. They are all the better for it.  

 

There is also, though no one knows it, this: Lancelot’s hands on his waist in the small alcove, his breath and lips in the crook of Arthur’s neck. They have both of them drunk too much wine to keep themselves upright, but even so there is a notion of sobriety to it, an underlying pledge. They are not lovers in the traditional sense but lord and vassal, a subject and his future king: this is a solemn act. 

 

“Sire. Allow me.”

 

Lancelot kneels at his feet and unlaces Arthur’s breeches, pushing the fabric aside to free his cock from its confines. He looks up into Arthur’s eyes.

 

“May I?”

 

Arthur exhales through his teeth, hiding the sound in the curve of his elbow. He nods, and Lancelot smiles at him.

 

There are no lies in this, either, because Arthur knows as well as Lancelot does that they are neither of them the other’s first choice. That is not what this is about. Arthur would have to be blind not to see the looks that have passed between Lance and Gwen, and Lancelot is not so naïve as to ignore the possessive way Merlin leans into Arthur’s shoulder while he pours the wine. In any case, Lancelot does not kiss Arthur’s lips but his ring, his wrist, the palm of his hand, and Arthur lays a hand on the top of his head as if to knight him again for this uncommon service. He lets Lancelot press his hips against the stone and take him in, wet and hot around the tip of his cock, and closes his eyes against the sudden blindness of his own need.

 

Lancelot is his elder by some years but his inexperience shows in his technique, the hesitance with which he moves; or perhaps he is trying to be delicate. Arthur tugs at Lance’s hair, a warning, and the knight grins up at him, taking the hint. He moves with more steadiness now, as if knowing he is in too deep to be rebuffed, his tongue laving teasing strokes along Arthur’s length and back again. His dark cheeks hollow out, one hand gripping the base of Arthur’s shaft and the other teasing his balls, sliding back into the hidden space of his cleft to the pucker of his hole. Arthur’s hips jerk. His head thuds against brick with enough force that his teeth clack together, and he pants Lancelot’s name to the ceiling, struggling for composure and finding only desire. Lancelot twists his wrist; his finger presses inward, nothing but devotion on his face, and in another moment Arthur comes down his throat with another man’s name trapped between his teeth, his fingers scrabbling helplessly at the stone.

 

Further down the hallway, laughter spills from a half-open door and the feast goes on without them. Merlin will be upset that Arthur has left him to fend for himself and the knights will be missing their guest of honour, yet still the pair of them pause for a moment, listening. At length, Lancelot says quietly, “My lord.” 

 

“My champion.” It is not a customary honorific, but it seems right. “You will not speak of this.”

 

“I will not,” he promises, and Arthur has no reason not to believe him. 

 

Later, there is a brief moment of worry when Lancelot’s secret is revealed, and Arthur is struck by a consciousness of how precariously close he will always be to losing the things he values most. If their tryst was known, it would not destroy him, but there would be sidelong looks and crude jokes, some of them within his hearing, and the people would question his fitness to rule, his ability to sire the heir that Camelot will need when he becomes king. Worse, they would believe him gullible, able to be deceived by his own lusts. His father would never bear such a thing. 

 

But Lancelot does not confess, and Arthur, who is acting half his rage, lets him go in spite of Uther’s edict. He is not sure he expects Lancelot to actually leave. There is a tie between them, even if it is not of the conventional sort, and for all his penchant for the unexpected Arthur has no doubt that should he call him, Lancelot will return. 

 

How can you trust a man who has lied to you? His father asks. Arthur thinks of Merlin and his magic, his smiling face, the way he lays his life at Arthur’s feet day after day without hesitation. He thinks of Lancelot’s honest gaze, the way he told the truth even when he did not intend to. Everyone lies to him, one way or another. It is simply a matter of choosing which untruth is the least unpalatable to believe.


End file.
